


heaven’s just a rumor

by exquisitecadaver



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Chronological, Pining, Sort Of, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26643568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exquisitecadaver/pseuds/exquisitecadaver
Summary: Working with Eames had often felt halfway to a fever dream: a helpless crescendo of research and tailing marks and going deep under, only to end with tidy sums tucked into offshore accounts and the steadily retreating image of Eames strolling to an airport gate.It felt like Eames only ever showed up to steal Arthur’s breath away (like he used to steal paintings and cigarettes and jewels); only ever to make Arthur fall just that much more in love with him.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	heaven’s just a rumor

**Author's Note:**

> title from sanctified by nin
> 
> um so. here’s a chapter i guess.

The thing is, Arthur really doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself when Eames isn’t around. When Eames isn’t around, Arthur’s world feels dull and shriveled-up, a bleached skeleton of what it should be. He feels cold and brittle; desolate.

\---------------------------------------------------

When they first started extracting together, at the dawn of the twenty-first century, Arthur quickly grew to crave Eames’ brilliant gaze and his crooked smirks and his careless _Arthur, darling’s_. Working with Eames had often felt halfway to a fever dream: a helpless crescendo of research and tailing marks and going deep under, only to end with tidy sums tucked into offshore accounts and the steadily retreating image of Eames strolling to an airport gate. It felt like Eames only ever showed up to steal Arthur’s breath away (like he used to steal paintings and cigarettes and jewels); only ever to make Arthur fall just that much more in love with him.

And that, falling in love with Eames, was so inexplicably easy— as simple as breathing, as raising dreamscapes out of nothing. As simple as sauntering out of a military base with a PASIV in each hand, with no one brave enough to try to stop him.

It’s simple because he _knows_ Eames. He knows his birth name. He knows that he’s ex-MI6, ex-black ops. He knows that Eames is a thief first and a soldier second, only now he steals secrets from dreams while wearing someone else’s skin. He knows that Eames loves animals and has a crippling soft spot for strays (and perhaps Arthur was one of them, lost and lonely until Eames found him). He knows that Eames always uses Brownings in dreams, but has started to carry a Glock up in reality because of Arthur.

He knows the cadence of his sleeping breaths, the endearing way he blinks awake in the mornings. He knows the map of scars and ink trailing across Eames’ skin. The inexorable press of his body against Arthur’s own.

\---------------------------------------------------

The year is 2007, and Arthur’s phone rings, in his Manhattan apartment, half a world away from Eames.  
“Eames,” Arthur begins. He shifts the phone to his right ear.

“Arthur, darling,” Eames sounds exhausted. “If this bloody job takes any longer I might have to shoot the pointman.”

“Incompetent?”

“Lazy,” Eames grinds out. “I don’t ever want to work without you again.”

 _Then don’t,_ Arthur wants to say, _Don’t, because I miss you and I never want you to leave me again._ But he doesn’t—he can’t. Instead, he says, “Dom has a job lined up for September, in London. Will you come?”

“Of course, love.” And that’s that. “I’ll be home by next week, if this damn team gets its shit together.”  
Arthur lets out a sigh, “Good luck, Eames.”

\---------------------------------------------------

The year is 2001, and they have just finished their second job together, in Paris. 

Mal and Dom are unabashed academics, always erring on the safer side of dreamshare. They studied at Beaux-Artes while Arthur and Eames cut their teeth in their respective armies. The job is simple; it goes off without a hitch.

Afterwards, Mal invites them to her place for drinks. She spends the entire time hitting on Dom, and Dom in turn spends the entire time blushing furiously with his eyes fixed to his wine glass. Arthur, though, can’t help himself and spends the entire time sneaking glances at Eames, who smirks at him, seeming to revel in their shared schadenfreude.

Afterwards, as they’re leaving, Eames presses him into a corner of the stairwell. Arthur opens his mouth to complain, to curse at him, when Eames’ gaze flicks down to his lips and stays there.

“I saw you watching me,” Eames breathes out, soft as a prayer.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“This, I imagine,” And he moves even closer, a steady wall of heat all along Arthur’s front. He leans forward, ever so slowly, _too_ slowly, so Arthur lunges forward and captures Eames’ lips with his own.

It starts not as a kiss, but a bruise; there are far too many teeth involved and it’s rough, impersonal. Eames shoves his thigh between Arthur’s, grinding up against Arthur’s already half-hard cock. He barely manages to suppress a groan. And then, after a moment, inexplicably, Eames _softens_ , turns the kiss gentle and sweet. He tastes like cigarettes and alcohol and rain, like a long-lost home.

The feeling of Eames’ mouth sliding searingly against his own burns itself into Arthur’s memory. 

(Arthur imagines that he’ll carry Eames’ taste in his mouth for the rest of his life.)

Eames pulls away to whisper against Arthur’s ear, “Your place or mine?”

“How very fucking presumptuous of you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says.. “Also, we’re staying in the same hotel.”  
Eames just smiles, smooths down Arthur’s shirt, and steps away. “Let’s get out of here then, darling.”  
Arthur lets himself be tugged into a worn-down taxi. They stumble out towards a disdainful concierge, at whom Eames smirks filthily, while sliding his hand from Arthur’s back to his ass.

Arthur maintains that the only reason he drops the key twice while trying to open his door is because Eames presses his hips tight against Arthur, grinding his body flush against Arthur’s back.

But they manage to get into the room, and they even manage to begin undressing, when Eames is suddenly and violently distracted by the sight of Arthur’s bare chest. He shoves Arthur up against the wall, pinning his wrists above his head; Eames presses an open-mouthed kiss almost reverently against the pale join of his neck and shoulder, then starts to suck a delicate mark underneath Arthur’s jaw. He knows it will bloom blue-purple-black, and thinks about being inescapably marked as _Eames_ ’.

“Fucking- Eames. C’mon, bed, _now_.” Arthur manages.

It’s an obscene series of movements: Eames unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down past his hips. Arthur tears his gaze away just long enough to finish undressing himself.

Eames pushes Arthur down onto the bed and his eyes go predatory.

**Author's Note:**

> ok i’m working on chapter 2 but i also have like 20 uni’s application essays to write so it might take a while.  
> sorry for writing the purplest of purple prose.
> 
> thanks for reading! i love each and every one of you.


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